


In the Heat of the Night

by objectlesson



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Cabin Fic, Edging, F/F, First Time, Girl Direction, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Sharing a Bed, Teasing, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 03:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417172
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: “You’re sleeping with me, obviously,” Harry says then, pausing to regard Louis with a funny expression, nose wrinkled and brows drawn tight. “Don’t tell me you thought that I’d let you freeze out here!? Absolutely not! C’mon, the bedroom’s cozy, I dragged a space heater out.”Louis wants to protest about as badly as she wants to sleep next to Harry Styles, which is a lot. Too much.---Or, Louis is the only butch in London with a truck and Harry needs to move a couch.





	In the Heat of the Night

**Author's Note:**

> This is for my wonderful friend Vanessa, who was kind enough to draw some ADORABLE and VERY SEXY art for my other girl direction fic, Wrap You Up in Daisy Chains. I hope you like bed-sharing and years long pining!! Thank you again, so much! <3 
> 
> And as always, another thank you to my fabulous beta Jen, for doctoring up whatever I give her. I love you very much.

Louis wants very badly to suck and lick and chew and kiss all over Harry Styles’ body. She also wouldn’t be opposed to, like, having a house in Yorkshire and twenty-four kids and half as many dogs and an organic vegetable garden with her, either, but given her rate of progress where Harry’s concerned, she’ll be shocked and lucky if the climax of years’ worth of pining is a drunken snog at the company Christmas party. 

The thing is, Louis’s fantastic at pulling girls she’s half-interested in: pretty American tourists pub crawling in Soho looking for a one-night stand, girls who say they’re straight until they’ve had three drinks and end up trailing their fingers all over Louis’s flannel, similarly single and lonely twenty-something-year-old girls at the Yard, tired of the dating game. She can be suave and charming in these situations, but when she actually _likes_ someone, she becomes the most useless and tragic of lesbians, the kind whose methods of flirtation aren’t that different from those of a twelve-year-old boy. 

It’s why she’ll likely never end up sucking marks into the delectable pudge that always pops out over the waistband of Harry’s illegally tight and perpetually torn skinnies. Because they’ve worked together for a grand total of _two years,_ and all Louis has ever done is 1. tease Harry relentlessly for having a boybander slash popstar name, 2. tug her curls at every given chance, 3. tickle her until she cries, and 4. chase her around the breakroom with gross, rotten food that’s been left in the fridge long enough to have lost all former semblance of what it once was. Harry has no idea that Louis desperately wants to fuck and/or marry her because Louis has done nothing but take the piss and wreak general mayhem for the duration of their time spent as coworkers. Harry probably isn’t even sure if Louis likes her as a friend, so she _certainly_ would never suspect Louis has made herself come approximately three thousand times to various fantasies regarding Harry’s insanely long legs crushing her head between them. 

Louis’s lamenting this exact tragedy to her best friend Niall at the pub on a Friday night after work, miserably nursing her third pint, more than a little bit buzzed as she explains, “I just…m’a fucking idiot is what I am. I see her every day, Nialler, you’d think, like, I’d’ve figured out how to do something, how to talk to her without teasing her? But I…every time I open me mouth, something stupid comes out. I just can’t help it, she makes me so insanely nervous. She’ll never know that m’in love with her.” 

Niall, who gives very sage advice for someone who avoids relationships in favour of casual sex like it’s her _job,_ purses her lips and thoughtfully swirls the foam around in her pint glass before offering, “Well, since you can’t _talk_ around her, have you considered _kind gestures_ as a sort of wooing method, like, courtly love n’all that shite? Give her a rose? Slay her a dragon?” 

“There are no dragons in London,” Louis gripes, swigging from her drink before slamming it back down defeatedly. 

“C’mon, mate, m’being _poetic_ here…I mean, you need to _get creative,”_ Niall gestures vaguely in the smoky air. “Like, be the chivalrous butch of her dreams. Open doors for her, buy her snacks from that godawful vending machine you have.” 

Louis smiles, charmed that Niall has been to her and Harry’s workplace all of three times yet has managed to remember the vending machine and how abhorrent it is. “I don’t see how that’ll help, really, if m’just making fun of her cute fucking dimples at the same time that I’m acting…what did you call it… _chivalrous.”_

 _“_ Well,” Niall slurs, shrugging and motioning for the bartender to come refill their pints. “S’just an option. Maybe an opportunity to be extra dashing will arrive, yeah? You just make to board that train when it arrives at the station is all m’saying.” 

Louis throws back the rest of her lager, wincing. “I’ll think about it,” is what she settles on. 

—-

When Louis's chance comes, she very nearly misses it. They’re working at an LGBTQ nonprofit with a number of other gay girls, and Harry has managed to build up a bit of a fan club, likely because she’s outrageously charming, stupidly likable, all-around hilarious, and a joy to work with in every way. On top of that, she’s objectively gorgeous, with her wild mess of tawny curls, sparkly green eyes, and stunning smile that's a little too big for her face in the best sort of way. She’s also tall and curvy at the same time, _and_ she almost exclusively wears these semi-translucent floral blouses that she never buttons higher than her navel. You’d be mad not to fall asleep dreaming of her cleavage at least once, so it’s not like Louis’s her _sole_ admirer. 

Needless to say, when Harry idly mentions during lunch that she’s looking for a favour this weekend, at least three girls wheel over on their rolling chairs with baited breath. She stabs her straw repeatedly into her ugly green smoothie, twirling a curl around her long, ringed finger as she begins, “My parents have this cottage up in Whitby. If they ever retire, they plan to leave London and move there, I guess, but they’re, like, _obsessed_ with their jobs no matter how much they complain about work, so we’ll see if that ever happens.” The story takes off slowly, ungainly, like an albatross with a broken wing, like every single other story that Harry ever tells, and it’s remarkable, actually, that she can be so very _awful_ at relaying information in an efficient way yet still have four women, Louis included, hanging on her every word. “ _Anyway,_ we’re using it for summer holidays and storage in the meantime, and I have some furniture I need to bring up there this weekend, but it literally only _just_ occurred to me that my mum’s car won’t fit any of it. Do you lot know _anyone_ in London with a pickup truck? Do they even _have_ pickup trucks in London?” 

Brilliantly, Louis has a pickup truck in London. 

She inherited said truck from her construction worker father, the only thing he left the family before disappearing with some tart back when Louis was still in nappies. She both loves and resents this vehicle for its dubious family history, even though it’s come in quite handy for the several times that Louis’s moved flats. And it could very well be her golden ticket to becoming the Chivalrous Butch of Harry’s dreams. If only she could fucking _speak._

The other girls are tittering about so-and-so’s brother who might have one or their ex’s ex-boyfriend who has a van, which is basically the same thing, but meanwhile Louis stands there with her hands jammed wrist-deep in her trackies, trying desperately to say something simple like, _Yes Harry, I have a pickup truck that you can borrow for the weekend if you want,_ but instead she's having to fight back some absurd uncalled-for dig at Harry for thinking that no one in London could possibly have such a thing. 

“Wait, doesn't Louis have one?” Nicky Grimshaw muses, swiveling around in her chair. 

“A what now?” Louis yelps, playing dumb because it’s easier than pretending that she’s been sitting here watching this entire exchange like a creep. 

“Oh! Louis, you _do_ , I remember because you used it to move the kegs out to that fundraiser in Brighton last summer!” Harry exclaims, clapping her enormous hands together in delight. Her rings clink, and it shouldn't make Louis’s butch heart weak, but, _god,_ she’s got it so bad. 

“I do...you can borrow it if you need it,” she adds, imagining driving over to Harry’s flat and helping her load the furniture, so fucking chivalrous that Niall won’t even _believe_ it. “I can drive it over Saturday morning.” Fuck, Louis’s so proud of herself, she’s said, like, three whole sentences without teasing Harry _once. “_ Can you drive a manual transmission?” 

Harry’s adorable face falls, grin promptly flipping upside down into an exaggerated pout. She has a wildly expressive face, and Louis has fucking whiplash. “No, shit, I can’t. I can hardly drive at all, if m’honest...was sort of hoping you’d be willing to drive me up to Whitby? I’ll pay for the petrol, and you can sleep at the cottage…s’quite cute, really.” 

She looks so _hopeful,_ like Louis might actually say _no,_ like Louis has anything better to do than spend five hours in a car with a girl she’s absolutely gone for. And maybe she _does_ have a few appointments and plans that she has to cancel, but _who even cares,_ this is the train that Niall was talking about; it’s arriving at the station, and she's gonna jump on it so fast. “Yeah, that’s fine, as long as I get to pick the music. None of that indie shite or pretentious classic rock you listen to all the time, yeah?” she quips, unable to hold back the dig, but she doesn't even regret it because Harry’s vaulting out of her rolling chair and throwing her arms around Louis’s neck in a fierce hug. 

“Yes, yes, yes, _thank you,_ of _course_ we can listen to whatever you want,” she promises, and Louis squeezes her back tightly, stunned at the shift of gauzy floral print under her arms, the soft press of Harry’s tits against her chest. Harry’s famous, fabulous tits.

Louis’s sort of lightheaded and distracted by being so close to them as she pulls away, so much so that she doesn't even fully process Nicky punching her in the arm long after the hug and murmuring, “Good luck,” in a way that’s both impressed and disappointed. 

For the rest of the day, Louis’s a mess of barely contained smiles and total dread. 

—-

They don’t leave until pretty late on Saturday, so it’s dark and Louis’s exhausted as much as she’s anxious by they time they’re underway. Harry buys her Pret coffee and sandwiches for the road, which helps with the exhaustion though not the anxiety; she doesn't really know what to expect, after all. She’s worked with Harry for years, but they've only hung out casually at big gatherings and holiday parties or retreats, never alone together for any prolonged period of time, and although it’s sort of a dream come true, it’s also sort of terrifying. Like, what if Harry hates her? What if she thinks that Louis’s creepy or notices that she's transparently overeager at the prospect of driving a coworker all the way to Whitby? What if she can _tell_ that Louis has ulterior motives? 

Not that Louis’s planning on trying _anything._ Mostly, she just wants the chance to get to know Harry better, to show Harry that she’s more than a year six boy with his first crush. 

So far, it’s going pretty well. She finds out that their musical tastes aren't quite as incompatible as she had thought, so they listen to the Arctic Monkeys’ entire discography as Louis drives, with bits of Fleetwood Mac sprinkled in, because as Harry correctly asserts, _anyone who doesn't like Stevie is literally homophobic,_ which Louis laughs at for, like, a solid five minutes. 

They gossip about work friends and trade different takes on breakroom drama, complaining about how they wish they could actually make money at a nonprofit, and it’s all so natural and organic and easy that the hours on the road fly by. By the time they make it to Whitby, it’s very nearly midnight, and Louis’s tired past the point of caring how she sounds, if she's being clever or funny or not. Harry laughs at her jokes, and there haven’t been any awkward lulls in conversation, so she thinks that she's doing all right, all things considered. 

“Fuck, it’s absolutely _freezing_ in here,” Harry yelps as they let themselves into the cottage, which smells faintly musty, like sea-air and mildew, an oddly comforting scent that reminds Louis of her own family’s beach holidays. “I don’t even know how to turn on the heater.” 

“We can try and figure that out after we get the furniture in, yeah?” Louis suggests through chattering teeth, wishing that she’d brought a heavier jacket than the single hooded flannel she’s currently wearing. “Let’s get that taken care of first.” 

It proves to be more of an ordeal than she anticipated, mostly because Harry’s one of the clumsiest, least spatially aware humans she’s ever tried to do manual labor with. There’s a sofa that they manage to repeatedly smash into the wall at least four times before Harry realizes that Louis’s directing her to _tilt_ it through the doorway instead of coming at it head on like a battering ram, and there’s a glass-top coffee table that Louis’s _shocked_ they don't completely shatter. By the time all the furniture is safely tucked away into a guest bedroom, her nerves are shot, her biceps are trembly and aching, and as far as she can tell, Harry’s no better off. 

“Time for a stiff drink,” Louis announces, and Harry rummages around in the sparsely equipped kitchen before finding a single bottle of wine that might actually be cooking sherry. They split it, and it helps with the insistent chill, but only for the hour it takes to finish it off. Now it’s bedtime, and Louis’s _certainly_ not driving home tipsy, this late at night, even if Harry let her. 

“You’re staying here,” Harry tells her at least ten times, tottering from room to room with a sleeping bag wrapped around her like a shawl. “I’m _sure_ there are some clothes tucked away that are your size.” 

“It’s fine, I’ll just sleep in these clothes, it's no big deal,” Louis assures from where she’s bundled on the couch, at least seven blankets deep and still shivering. It’s going to be a cold, cold night. “Though I wouldn’t say no to that sleeping bag you’re wearing.” 

“You’re sleeping with me, obviously,” Harry says then, pausing her search to regard Louis with a funny expression, nose wrinkled and brows drawn tight. “Don’t tell me you thought that I’d let you freeze out here on the couch!? Absolutely not! C’mon, the bedroom’s cozy, I dragged a space heater out.” 

Louis wants to protest about as badly as she wants to sleep next to Harry Styles, which is a lot. Too much. With her teeth grit, she shakes her head no, fists clenching in the duvet that she’s relying on to literally keep her alive in this icebox. “Nah, s’okay...don’t want to, like, affect your sleep or make you…I dunno, uncom—”

“Louis,” Harry interrupts dramatically, head popping around the corner in a mess of curls, cheeks pink with cold. “I’m _offering,_ so don't be stupid. It’s tundra out here. C’mon, we’re both girls.” 

And…Louis has no fucking idea what to say to _that._ Because it’s a straight girl thing to say, it’s literally _only_ acceptable to say if you’re a heterosexual girl about to share a bed with another heterosexual girl. It’s supposed to mean, _we’re both girls, we have the same parts, so it’s not weird or suggestive or loaded and nothing’s going to happen._ But she's gay. And Harry’s gay. So saying something like, “we’re both girls,” basically means, “we have the potential to fuck,” which has Louis, like, _reeling._ What’s she supposed to do with this? Is Harry coming on to her? 

Probably not, with the way that she’s yawning and swaying on her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth, adorably sleepy. Louis tries to play it cool and says, “Yeah...alright, yeah, if you’re cool with it, I’m cool with it?” 

“I’m cool’ith et,” Harry yells from the bathroom, voice garbled around her toothbrush, and well. Louis’s just going to have to deal with this, she supposes. She’s just going to have to pretend that she’s totally immune to Harry’s perfect tits and pretty smile and soft waist lying all but a foot away from her. 

But she realizes that it’s gonna be something closer to four inches away when she finally _sees_ the bed, which isn’t a king or even a queen but a measly _double,_ if that. Louis inhales shakily as she brushes her own teeth, rubbing anxiously at the chilled outside of her arms while she watches Harry fiddle with the space heater, plugging it in with her tongue pressed pink and lovely at the corner of her mouth. “Is there room for us both?” she asks weakly, wishing that she could tease _now_ instead of being mortifyingly dry-mouthed and nervous, like she used to be at all her sixth-form sleepovers, the time when she was just beginning to realize that it wasn’t normal to want to “practice” kissing her friends. 

“Of course,” Harry shrugs nonchalantly, flopping into the bed. At some point unbeknownst to Louis, she changed into a pair of soft-looking joggers and a hoodie, and she looks so cozy and cute with her hair tied up in a bun, and, _god,_ Louis would kiss her so good if she were her girl, she’d spoil her and make her come so many times that she’d lose count, until she had no voice and her legs were shaking. “C’mon...we can have a cuddle until the space heater kicks in.” 

And that’s how Louis ends up bedded down in Harry Styles’ parents’ retirement cottage in Whitby, lying stock-still next to Harry while she clings to her side, face nuzzled unto her shoulder, like it’s _normal_ to just _snuggle your coworkers_ before bedtime. “M’really grateful that you drove me up here, thank you so much,” Harry yawns, scooting closer to Louis and twining their legs, either not noticing or pretending to not notice the rapid-fire beat of Louis’s heart. “I really, really appreciate it.” 

“Anytime,” Louis grinds out, wishing that she could tell the difference between Harry just being cuddly and Harry being something else. She certainly isn’t doing a very good job of proving that she has more game or social intelligence than a preteen boy, settling in closer to Harry, but only because she still feels like she’s mere degrees away from freezing completely solid. “It’s a nice bit of Yorkshire… I get why your parents plan to retire here.” 

“Whitby is terrifically boring,” Harry declares, yawning again, letting go of Louis, _thank god,_ to adjust the blankets around them more snugly. “But it has its charms, I suppose. Did you know that the coast here is where Dracula supposedly washed up?” 

“Dracula isn’t real,” Louis murmurs, eyes heavy, heart still thudding against her ribcage even as she drifts closer to sleep. She’s cold, but she’s getting warmer, and as a result, she’s getting drowsier, too. 

“Well, the guy who wrote Dracula wrote about Whitby. They have a goth festival here in October, and all the goths come out to, like, pay their respects or whatever,” Harry explains, and Louis wonders if she's joking, if this is some weird elaborate prank. She tries to imagine a bunch of people in black mourning veils milling about town, and a sleepy laugh bubbles up out of her. 

“You’re funny,” she sighs, rolling decidedly onto her side, shutting her eyes tightly. Her arm brushes against some blankets formerly not under the weight of her body, and they’re _so cold_ in comparison that she almost shrieks, so cold that she thinks they're _wet_ at first. Louis settles back into her warm spot and adds, “You can tell me more about Dracula and the goths in the morning, but we should really get some sleep.” 

“Night, Louis,” Harry mumbles, breath hot against the back of Louis's neck, she’s _that_ close, rolled onto her side so that all it would take to spoon Louis would be for her to lift and curl her arm. It makes Louis quite nervous because she hates being the little spoon. She also just doesn’t feel functional or aware enough to deal with any subsequent issues that might come with Harry _touching_ her more. She’s already short of breath and shivery, freezing save for the heat low and traitorous in her gut every time Harry exhales behind her. 

She’s committed to it being a pretty shit night of sleep. 

—-

At some point, Louis must actually nod off because she jolts awake quite suddenly, and you can’t really do that if you’re only lying in bed wishing that you weren’t doomed to obsess and panic over every little shift and twitch of the person sleeping next to you. She blinks in the darkness and tries to process why the fuck she’s _so_ uncomfortable. 

Then she realizes that it’s because she’s positively drenched in sweat. Because sometime between falling asleep freezing and waking up drowning in perspiration, the space heater, like, _did its job_. It’s blasting now, and Louis’s wearing boxers under everything else, thank god, so she toes off her socks and wiggles out of her joggers before sitting up clumsily and shutting the heater off after much difficulty and useless button smashing. Then she flops back down on the bed as gently as she can, not wanting to wake Harry. 

It proves to be inconsequential because Harry’s stirring anyway, groaning lowly in her throat. “S’hot. Like, so hot,” she murmurs, voice so soft and drowsy that it’s more of a rumble, really, like thunder far away in the distance. 

“I turned the heater off,” Louis whispers, turning her head to regard Harry in the moonlight, the wreck of curls that have fallen from her bun framing her sleepy face, all adorable and crinkled as she blinks, confused. “Should help.” 

“Mmmhmmm,” she hums, worrying one of her plump lips between her teeth. 

And then, because Louis’s life is _apparently_ a joke, Harry does something terrible. 

She hooks her thumbs into the elastic of her PJ bottoms and pulls them _entirely_ down _,_ along with her _pants._ Just rolls them right down her pale thighs and kicks them into the depths of the bed. It’s too dark to really _see_ anything but the clumsy, sleep-heavy motion of it, but Louis’s _scandalized_ , heart vaulting up into her throat to pound itself half to death. If she wasn’t awake before, she _certainly_ is now. 

“Erm,” she rasps, clearing her throat, hoping that Harry just _forgot_ that she was here or something and will realize what she's doing and _stop._ Instead, she watches in dual horror and exalted, religious awe as Harry _pulls her hoodie and t-shirt over her head_ and struggles out of them, too, movements determined and not at all accidental, like it’s completely socially acceptable to just dump your glorious tits out when you’re lying in bed next next to someone you know from work. The moonlight spills over her chest, tits spreading out to the sides in a porn-status undulation as she rolls onto her back to get the tangle of her hair through the neck of her hoodie. 

Louis can see her nipples, puffy and suckable, for a second before they draw tight, perspiration shining on her sternum because, right, of course, she’s getting naked because the room feels like a sauna. Louis _tries_ not to stare, but she’s mesmerized. After all, she's spent two years catching glimpses of Harry’s tits through her gauzy shirts and flimsy bralettes, and now they’re just…right there. On display. Moving in time with her laboured breath, as soft and big and delicious as Louis has always suspected they were. “Uh, ah,okay, so I’ll just go sleep on the couch then, yeah?” she stammers suddenly, needing to excuse herself because she isn’t coherent enough in this moment to talk herself out of getting turned on and wanting things that Harry isn’t offering. At least, Louis _thinks_ she isn’t offering because the opposite of that would be _insane._

 _“_ Why?” Harry asks, idly rubbing a hand down her sternum, rings flashing in the moonlight because she’s taken everything _else_ off but not those. “S’just a pair of tits. You have ‘em, too, we’re both girls,” she infuriatingly repeats. 

Louis makes a defeated, impatient noise. “You keep saying that like it changes things, but _I like girls_ , obviously, and you’re _very_ attractive, and I need to leave,” she blurts, gesturing in frustration, realizing too late that she just sort of _admitted_ to wanting to suck and lick and chew and kiss all over Harry Styles’ body, in so many words. At least she didn’t mention wanting all the other stuff, too. “Sorry if that makes you uncomfortable,” she tacks on at the end, preparing to slide out of the bed when Harry reaches out and _grabs her._

Louis freezes. Harry's big hand is on her _skin,_ fingers encircling her wrist gently. It’s a weak, sleepy grip, and Louis could easily pull out of it, but she's so shocked that all she can do is stare down at Harry, naked and moonlit and looking for all the world like some pre-Raphaelite painting of Ophelia or something. “You think I’m attractive?” Harry asks, voice low. She sounds more awake now, and that in and of itself is terrifying. She isn’t sleep-talking or sleep-stripping, she’s _conscious._

 _“_ Of course I do,” Louis whispers, feeling her pulse pick up under the pressure of Harry’s warm palm. “And I _already_ feel like a pervert looking at you, which is why I just…I can’t just lie next to you and sleep like I’m at an innocent slumber party,” she chokes out, starting to sweat again even though the heater isn’t on anymore. 

“Then don’t,” Harry says, gently tugging on Louis’s wrist and pulling her closer, _inviting her back._ Harry lips her licks, and Louis maybe flatlines. 

_She’s actually coming on to me,_ Louis realizes, heart pounding so hard that she feels sick with it. Her gaze sweeps down the elegant column of Harry’s neck, and there, tucked close to her shoulder, Louis sees her pulse rabbiting away, and just _knowing_ that Harry’s nervous, too, gives her the courage to shuffle back into bed, dipping low enough to smell Harry’s sleep breath. “So…I can kiss you?” she asks, watching Harry’s lashes flutter against her cheek as she makes a wordless longing sound deep in her throat. 

“You can do whatever the fuck you want to me, Louis,” she eventually murmurs, and then they’re kissing, slick and hot and dirty and desperate.

Harry’s lips are plush and chapped, opening easily for Louis, and they’re proper snogging in mere seconds, Harry whimpering and sucking on Louis’s tongue, rolling her hips, mauling all over her back with greedy hands. Louis might be fucking dreaming, but she doesn’t care. Harry tastes like sleep and heaven, and her body’s so lovely and _soft_ under her, writhing unashamedly, a plump thigh working its way up between Louis’s legs to push against her cunt, her padded tummy and _those tits_ pressing against Louis’s chest as they grind together. 

Harry’s _so_ obviously into this and so indisputably turned on that even Louis’s parade of insecurities can’t convince her that she was anything other than horribly wrong for the past two years. Harry isn't kissing her like someone acting on a whim or an idea, she’s kissing her like she's been _gagging_ for it. Her hands are everywhere, she’s making so much noise, and there might have been a moment when Louis thought they were just going to snog and see where it went, but then Harry spread her thighs before trapping one of Louis’s between them, bearing down so that her bare cunt rubbed right up against Louis’s skin, and, _god,_ they’re going to fuck, Harry wants to _fuck_ her. It’s insane and surreal and the room is dizzyingly hot again, but Louis isn’t worrying about it, not one bit. She’s getting fistfuls of Harry's curls and tugging gently, moving her head where she wants her so that she can kiss her deep and hard and hungry. She's pushing her thigh up into that slick infernal heat, wondering how someone just humping her leg could feel like a revelation.

They roll around desperately for a bit, Louis so wet and turned on that she feels like she could come just from _this,_ from grinding against Harry’s leg through her boxers. She feels like a teenager, about to get off in her clothes, when Harry pushes her hands up the back of Louis’s shirt and razes her nails down either side of her spine, a muffled moan trembling out into their kiss. It’s clear that she wants Louis naked, which is fine because she’s burning the fuck up anyway, so for a clumsy moment, she pulls away to get out of her shirt, and that’s when she remembers that Harry’s _tits_ are out, pale and heaving as she sucks in laboured breaths. 

“God,” she breathes, reaching out to _touch,_ to squeeze them, to push them together and create a delectable crease of cleavage to press her fevered face into. Harry gasps and writhes, making the prettiest fucking sound, and Louis wants to hear it again, wants to make this girl _come,_ reduce her to a shivery, sweat-slick mess of nerves on this bed. 

Louis starts with her nipples, thumbing over them so that they draw taut before shifting down the bed to suck one into her mouth. Harry cries out and locks up, and Louis _feels_ her cunt pulse against the plane of her thigh. “You like having your tits played with?” she asks, pulling away so that her breath skates over spit-damp skin before flicking her tongue around the hard nub, just how she would if she were holding Harry’s legs apart and licking her there. 

“Yes,” Harry whispers, running her fingers through Louis’s short hair, combing it away from her face. “Erm, I’ve been known to, like...orgasm, actually, just from having nipple clamps on? So. Feel free to bite.” 

“Jesus Christ,” Louis moans, dipping down and sucking, letting her teeth raze against Harry enough that she whimpers. “Think I can make you come just from sucking on them?” she asks then, squeezing the other one, rolling the nipple between her fingers greedily, loving that she can get away with being a bit rough. Harry likes it _so much,_ she’s positively flooding against Louis’s leg, rubbing herself rhythmically, body quaking. 

“Maybe...probably,” Harry whines, face crumpling as Louis sinks her teeth in, biting down firmly and deliberately. She sucks the sting away before pushing Harry down onto her back and pulling her leg away, totally determined to work Harry up as much as she can with her mouth on her tits, and that alone. This is what she _wants,_ what she’s wanted since she met Harry. To get her in bed and tease her for _hours,_ licking all over her perfect skin, mapping out her tattoos, bringing her close and close and close again without actually getting her off yet, just to see her _beg,_ to see her ruined.

“I’d like to try,” she tells Harry, straddling her hips and taking a tit in each hand to squeeze tenderly, loving the _give,_ the softness, the way that Harry arches up off the bed and groans. “But no pressure. Just...let me take you apart, yeah?” 

“Please,” Harry begs, sounding moved, and, _fuck_ , that’s all Louis needs to hear. She spreads out on top of Harry and buries her face between her tits again, kissing up the swell of them, astounded at the taste of her skin, the salt and the sweat and the sweetness. She nips at the outer curve of Harry’s breasts, sucking marks into her sternum below her collar bones before working her way back to where she’s most sensitive, teasing and biting and drowning until Harry’s positively falling apart with it, trembling under Louis’s mouth. “Fuck, you feel so good, m’close,” she’ll say, and Louis will pull off for a bit and go back to snogging her swollen lips, so slick and fuckable that Louis can’t stop thinking about sitting on her face. 

“You good? This is all okay?” she asks at some point, sitting up and spreading her palms over Harry’s trembling stomach, thumbing over the butterfly inked there.

“This is the best sex of my life,” Harry answers in a hoarse voice, “And you haven’t even touched my clit yet. I’m...yeah, v’basically died and gone to heaven.” 

“You want me to touch it?” Louis asks, reaching behind her and trailing her fingers teasingly up the inside of Harry’s thigh, where she’s soft and warm and sweat-damp. _She_ certainly wants to touch her there, wants to see how wet she’s made her, how hard and suckable her clit is from all this teasing. Her fucking mouth floods with saliva just thinking about it. 

“I do, so badly,” Harry sobs, trapping Louis’s hand between her thighs and squeezing, writhing. “Pease, you’re driving me mad.” 

Louis climbs off her hips and gets between her legs because she _desperately_ wants to see what her fingers look like sliding through Harry’s folds for the first time, wants to see them slick and lit by the moon. She holds her breath and gently nudges Harry's pale thighs apart, loving the way that she's shaking, how anxious she is to have Louis feel her, lifting her arse off the bed and bucking uselessly in the air like she can’t wait another second to be fucked. 

Swallowing thickly, Louis just traces her slit at first, gasping at the insane, messy slick of it, how _drenched_ Harry is, crying out but not so loudly that Louis can’t hear the dirty sound of her own fingers moving against wet flesh. “Fuck, wow,” she marvels, collecting wetness to rub in teasing little circles over Harry’s clit. “So beautiful.” 

“God, oh, god,” Harry whines, rolling her hips, pulsing against Louis’s hand. “I...if you wanna make me come sucking my nipples, you can’t do this for long. M’…fuck. It’s too good.” 

Louis can’t believe it, can’t believe how gorgeous and otherworldly Harry looks writhing on her fingers, naked and trembling in a sheen of sweat, hair everywhere, stomach muscles visibly spasming. She can’t believe that all her fucking _fantasies_ are coming true, all because of a cold spell and a space heater. She feels like she won the lottery.

She plays with Harry a bit longer, smoothing slickness all over her lips, dipping fingers inside her where she’s hot and tight and smooth, rubbing back up to thumb over her clit, which is absurdly hard but also just objectively _big_. Louis _loves_ that, loves to have something to wrap her lips around and really suck, but she knows if she gets anywhere close to tasting Harry, she’ll never be able to stop, and she _really_ wants to see if she can bring her off _just_ sucking her tits. The thought makes her dizzy with hunger, so she withdraws her fingers and crawls back over her, pressing sweet, lingering kisses to her tummy, her ribcage.

Harry’s just sort of lying there looking dazed and fucked out, touching Louis’s arms, her shoulders, her hair, eyes roving over her like she just wants to drink up the image of her and never forget a thing. But as Louis reaches up with her slick fingers and rubs the wetness over Harry’s nipples, making them shiny in the moonlight, she cries out, bucking messily in the air as Louis dips down to suck them off, tongue swirling as she groans at the taste. And _fuck,_ everything about Harry is perfect, she’s spice and salt and musk and sugar, and Louis _cannot_ fucking get enough of any of it. 

Louis sort of loses time then, for a bit. She alternates between Harry’s nipples, sucking and chewing one while she pinches the other, and really, she could do this forever and not get tired. Harry is all gasps and trembles, choking out an awed, ragged version of Louis’s name from time to time that makes Louis’s heart break in longing to hear it again. She's so wet that she can feel it on her thighs, her own spit making her chin slick as she works Harry over, teasing and tasting. She’s the happiest fucking girl in the world, hands all over Harry’s ribcage and stomach, occasionally dipping her hand low enough to thread her fingers through her pubic hair but never lower. 

At some point, Harry yelps, thrashing on the bed, holding Louis’s head in place with her hand, heartbeat picking up audibly. Louis's stomach plummets, and she bites down, so desperate to bring Harry off this way, but Harry has other plans, apparently. Or maybe it’s not a plan at all, maybe she just loses control of herself, mindless in her need to come, because as she sobs, she throws her leg over Louis’s hips and drags herself close. And there, with Louis’s mouth sucking on her, she humps her leg to finish, cunt burning hot and deliciously slick as she furiously grinds it against Louis. 

It’s so fucking hot that Louis doesn’t even really care. Harry collapses and flops onto her back, panting desperately. “Sorry,” she whimpers, turning to look at Louis, face dimpled and lovely as she beams. “I couldn’t stand it anymore.” 

“We’ll work on it,” Louis jokes. “I’ll get you next time...assuming there is a next time?” 

“Erm, I really hope so,” Harry murmurs, settling closer to Louis, reaching out to tentatively cup Louis’s left tit for the first time. It looks very small in her hand, as Louis’s very nearly flat-chested. “Are you a love-’em-and-leave-’em sort of girl?” 

“No,” Louis says earnestly, even if the last ten or so girls that she’s fucked she never saw again. It was only because she was holding out for Harry Styles. “I’m a domestic, chop-firewood-for-’em-and-take-’em-home-to-meet-me-mum sort of girl.” 

“Thank god,” Harry sighs before rolling on top of Louis and kissing her deeply and sloppily. Before Louis can even really get into it, Harry pulls away, curls tumbling around both of their shoulders, cloaking them in darkness as she whispers, “I wanna spend the next hour-- _at least_ \--eating you out.” 

“Oh,” Louis says stupidly, feeling drunk on Harry’s breath, the filthy feel of her swollen lips ghosting against her own. “You do?” 

“Yeah, is that okay?” Harry asks, hands all over Louis’s chest, like she can’t stop touching now that she’s started. “I really want to. S’like my absolute favourite thing.” 

“Wow,” Louis murmurs, letting go of Harry long enough to hook her thumbs into the waistband of her boxers and wiggle out of them. “I mean, me, too. I just didn’t—“

“What, did you think I was a pillow princess or something?!” Harry asks incredulously before dissolving into giddy laughter. “God!” 

“No…maybe? Mostly I just didn’t want to expect anything. I mean, it would have been fine if you were, to be honest,” Louis shrugs. “But it’s insanely hot that you want to...m’obsessed with your mouth, would love to come in it,” she admits, thumbing over Harry’s big, puffy lips, so ruined just from snogging. Harry whimpers again, tongue flicking out to taste. 

“God, I’d love that, s’like, all I think about,” she breathes, already scooting down the bed eagerly, licking her lips. 

Louis’s deliriously turned on, so pretty much any touch at this point would feel amazing, but she’s not _at all_ ready for how fucking perfect Harry’s mouth is. Before she does anything, though, she _kisses_ her, just presses her face into Louis’s cunt and inhales, moaning like Louis’s the best fucking thing she’s ever smelled. That alone has Louis breathless and squirming, but then Harry holds her slit open and licks up and down it with broad, messy, hungry strokes, and Louis might actually die. Her tongue’s _so_ good and _so_ soft, and she's making _so much noise,_ whimpering and moaning as she licks Louis out like it’s her job. 

And again, Louis loses time. She makes fists in the sheets before she realizes that she can make fists in Harry’s mess of curls instead, which means she can give her a gentle tug when she starts to get close so that Harry knows to lay off and tease, making her mouth sweet and soft and gentle, or kiss all over Louis’s thighs, enough that she’s still throbbing but not in danger of actually losing it. Louis _loves_ this, loves knowing that Harry wants to be down there for as long as she can hold off, loves knowing that they’re both so hungry for it that they want it to go on forever. At some point, she notices that she can see the lovely slope of Harry’s back with more clarity and detail than she’s had all night, and then realizes it’s because the fucking _sun_ is coming up and flooding the room through the window, that they’ve been fucking for so many hours it’s _dawn._ Louis throws her head back and groans, grinding into the sloppy wet heat of Harry’s mouth as she sucks her clit, hands spread over her thighs to hold her open, and, _god,_ she’s so fucking lucky that Harry’s so desperate for it, too. 

Eventually, Harry works two fingers up inside her and crooks them while she licks, and it’s too much for Louis, she can’t hold on any longer. “Let me come,” she grinds out, voice so shot and ragged that it sounds very nearly unrecognizable, even to her. “I’ll come again for you, just...let me now, yeah?” 

Harry nods eagerly against her, tongue flicking rapidly, lips so puffy and hot. Louis traps her between the wild clench of her thighs and lets herself ride the wave of sensation over the edge, pulsing madly against Harry's tongue, into Harry’s lush, moaning mouth. It’s easily one of the messiest and best orgasms that she’s had in _a while,_ and as she trembles with the aftershocks, Harry nurses her through it, sucking wide and aimless and with no real force, but even that’s too much, so Louis yelps and wiggles away, pulling Harry up by her hair. “Too sensitive,” she gasps, and Harry looks down at her through her wreck of hair, lips shiny and swollen as she pouts. 

“But you said you could come again for me,” she reminds her, digging her thumbs into the divots beside Louis’s hips. “ I feel very betrayed.” 

“And _you_ said I could make you come just from sucking your nipples. We’re a couple of…lying liars who lie, apparently,” Louis all but slurs, feeling _high,_ the whole of her body still faintly vibrating with having come so hard, legs useless and weak. “But luckily, this is happening again, right?” 

Harry crawls up and collapses on top of her, rubbing her face into Louis’s neck and inhaling shakily. “Hopefully, in, like, a few hours. After we get some sleep,” she adds, and Louis’s _elated,_ squeezing her hard and burying her face in her hair. “M’not letting you off so easy,” Harry tells her, before getting distracted and palming up Louis’s sides. “ _God,_ you’re so fit. I dunno if I can even wait that long. Fuck sleeping.” 

Louis cracks up, rolling Harry onto her back so that she can breathe properly. She’s _tall_ and _heavy_ and as amazing as she feels, Louis hasn’t _quite_ recovered enough from that orgasm to do anything save for pant pathetically under her. “ _You’re_ so fit, Harry,” she says, squeezing her tits a bit and making her gasp. “This is quite embarrassing, but I’ve had a massive, massive crush on you for pretty much forever. Like, on your first day, I remember wanting to kiss you...instant attraction.” 

“Oh, my god,” Harry mumbles, covering her eyes and pretending to be shy again, so fucking cute and coy and perfect with her dimples and eyes shining green in the frosty dawn-light. “Then why didn't you do anything about it?! I was instantly attracted to you, too. And, like...flirted with you, but you never seemed interested, so I dropped it, thought I wasn't hot enough for you or something.” 

Louis shakes her head, feeling like an idiot. “You’re so hot that you could date pretty much any girl you wanted. Definitely any girl at work…everyone has a crush on you, you know.” 

“Bullshit,” Harry laughs, eyes getting wide and skeptical. “Nicky Grimshaw has a crush on me, maybe. But nobody else does...unless they’re all like _you_ and don't show it _one bit,”_ she teases, lifting her head to playfully bite Louis’s shoulder before going limp on the pillows again. “All you did was make fun of me, I thought you wanted to make it, like…super clear that you just liked me as a friend.” 

“I’m such an idiot,” Louis grumbles, leaning in to catch Harry’s big, expressive mouth in a kiss. She hopes that it’s a reassuring kiss, an _I’m sorry I was a spineless twat_ kiss. “I literally have made myself come at least one hundred times thinking about you. I’ve wanted to ask you out for, god, _forever,_ I just…fuck. I teased you _because_ I like you so much, because you make me fucking nervous. Just wish I had known that you actually liked me.” 

“Ugh,” Harry says, wrinkling her nose so charmingly that Louis has to kiss it. “You know what this means? Means we’re gonna have to fuck _three times as much_ as the average couple to make up for lost time.” 

“Couple? Are we a couple now?” Louis asks, trailing her hands down Harry’s sides tenderly, smiling at her in this way that feels massive and boundless, like she’s too small to contain all that Harry makes her feel. “Because that would make all my dreams come true, pretty much.” 

Harry grins back at her before she throws her arms around her neck and squeezes hard enough that Louis chokes a little, mouth full of unruly brown curls. “Yes, we are,” she announces, and Louis’s so fucking happy that she feels tears spring to her eyes. “Now,” Harry smirks, pulling her face back and grinning somewhat manically, teeth in her lips. “Can I go down on you again?”

And who is Louis to keep her waiting?

—-


End file.
